Hell's Angel: The Autobiography Of Sonny Barger

Summary

Narrated by the visionary founding member, Hell's Angel provides a fascinating all-access pass to the secret world of the notorious Hell's Angels Motorcycle Club. Sonny Barger recounts the birth of the original Oakland Hell's Angels and the four turbulent decades that followed. Hell's Angel also chronicles the way the HAMC revolutionized the look of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle and built what has become a worldwide bike-riding fraternity, a beacon for freedom-seekers the world over.

Dozens of photos, including many from private collections and from noted photographers, provide visual documentation to this extraordinary tale. Never simply a story about motorcycles, colorful characters, and high-speed thrills, Hell's Angel is the ultimate outlaw's tale of loyalty and betrayal, subcultures and brotherhood, and the real price of freedom.

Due to copyright restrictions, this eBook may not contain all of the images available in the print edition.

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Hell's Angel - Sonny Barger

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INTRODUCTION

I knew all along that if I told my story straight up, just as it happened and without any apologies, the bike riders and citizens who love freedom and the open road would rise up and support my book and make it a bestseller. And that’s what happened. Within the first few months of the hardcover release, Hell’s Angel became a bestseller in the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, and Germany. Translations are on the way in Italy, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Japan, and even Turkey and Estonia. Like my Harley Road King, the book really took off.

People all over the world have visited my website, www.sonnybarger.com, and posted their personal messages of support. They seem to have understood my central message: freedom ain’t cheap, don’t be a rat, and sometimes you have to literally fight to be free. And readers finally got the real story of the Hell’s Angels after decades of law enforcement garbage they’ve been spoon-fed through the media and crappy tell-all books and articles. This was a chance to clear up all the lies and distortions.

Most writers/authors sign books and do press interviews in just the big cities like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and maybe Denver and San Francisco. That’s about it. Well, I knew that wasn’t gonna cut it with my people.

After the kick off release of the book in New York City with a signing and a party that included the New York City chapter, the Sonny Barger 2000 Route 66 Tour started in Chicago and wound its way across the United States to the sunny shores of California. I wanted to sign books in real American places like Springfield (both Illinois and Missouri), St. Louis, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, and so forth. After Amarillo, we hit the West, my territory, spanning regions like New Mexico, Arizona, veering off to Vegas and finally, California and the West Coast.

In addition to bookstores, we had signings in bike shops and Harley-Davidson dealerships all along the way. The bike shops became the answer, the place to really reach the die-hards. I guess they felt more comfortable around a grease pit or a showroom full of Harleys than a bookstore. If we drew three hundred people at a bookstore, a bike shop might draw more like six hundred to eight hundred people.

After the Route 66 Tour, I shot off into all four corners of the United States, including Denver, Minneapolis, Cleveland, Buffalo, Rochester, Portland, Seattle, and lots of towns in the Northeast. I signed thousands of books at major motorcycle events such as the Black Hills Rally at Sturgis, South Dakota, the Four Corners Rally near Durango, Colorado, Biketoberfest in Daytona Beach, the New England Bike Spectacular in Boston, the Hollister Independence Rally in California, and even the Bulldog Bash in Strafordshire, England (my first time over there). The club also got involved, as many local Hell’s Angels chapters jumped in and sponsored signings in their areas.

At my homecoming signing in Oakland, thirty Oakland Hell’s Angels rode with me to the signing at a local Harley dealership. That day I signed almost nine hundred books at an annual grand event with live music, custom motorcycles on display, and girls in bikinis washing bikes. The cops rode up and down the street, jealously checking up on us. We were partying. A typical Hell’s Angel signing event.

As of this writing, the last leg of my spring tour includes HAMC-sponsored signings in Phoenix and Anaheim. Then it’s off to the Laughlin River Run in Nevada, followed by a couple more bike shop appearances in Washington and Idaho (sponsored by our Washington Nomads chapter). After that, I’ll fly to Oslo and Copenhagen, then back for more HAMC-sponsored signings in Laconia, New Hampshire, Cape Cod, and San Diego.

You get the picture. I’m on the move and the road doesn’t end, and I’m just where I want to be. Ten months after I bought my Harley-Davidson Road King, I have put on more than 40,000 miles, not counting air travel. Each signing seems to have its own story.

I brought at least two club members to ride with me at all times. While on the Route 66 Tour, from Chicago down through St. Louis and Kansas City, there were more than forty club members riding with me. It was big fun. I told the publishers not to reserve any fancy hotel rooms. All we needed was gasoline and a place to sleep. We were packing light and would just pull into a motel (scaring the shit out of the clerk), party a little around our bikes (which were usually right outside our doors), and catch a little shut-eye before heading out the next morning.

When we pulled into the St. Louis bookstore parking lot, we were a little early. The lady from the bookstore glanced at her watch and pointed across the street toward a tavern, Hit the bar across the street, Mr. Barger. I’m buying. With forty thirsty Hell’s Angels from Chicago and Minneapolis riding with me, boy, I wondered if she knew what she was getting into. We behaved.

When we pulled into Doc’s Harley-Davidson dealership in St. Louis, the manager gave us free T-shirts and, although we were originally only scheduled for an hour, we signed more than five hundred books. They eventually ran out.

After getting off my bike in Albuquerque, a Hell’s Angel ran up and grabbed me.

Hey brother, how are you doin’?

I was a little tired, just off the road, but I was okay with him, even though I didn’t know the guy. I saw that he was wearing a death head patch, but the bottom rocker said International. That seemed pretty strange. At first I thought it may have been an Australian patch, but no, I was mistaken. I became suspicious, so I asked the guy, Hey man, do they let you wear that ‘International’ patch over there?

He just shrugged his shoulders.

I told him, Well, we don’t, and I want to talk to you about it when I get done signing.

I walked inside the bookstore and there were already about three hundred people in line, waiting to get their books signed. I sat down and signed two books when this guy with the strange patch walked by me again. One of the members tapped me on the shoulder.

Hey Sonny, look at that.

The guy was wearing a death head copied from the movie poster Hell’s Angels Forever. The design on the poster wasn’t a real death head; we altered it slightly so it would be just a little bit different from an authentic HAMC patch. I jumped up from the table and approached the guy wearing the phony death head.

Excuse me a minute, I said, and a member and I took him aside. Who the fuck are you? What’s going on? I asked him.

I live here in Albuquerque, he said.

Give me that patch, I told him.

Why? he answered back.

Wrong answer.

We took the jacket off him, as well as his T-shirt that said Oakland on it, gave him another shirt to wear, and sent him packing and regretting his stupidity. I assured the people in line (some looked a little startled) that things were cool. Sorry for the delay. Everything’s taken care of. Don’t worry.

Then I sat down and resumed signing books.

Also in Albuquerque, my bodyguard, Joby from the Cave Creek Hell’s Angels, got arrested for carrying his gun. The signing in Albuquerque was in a bookstore that was part of a mall complex that had a lot more than just a bookstore. There was also a liquor store and a restaurant that served liquor. Well, Albuquerque is sort of like Arizona; you can carry a gun out in the open, but you can’t take it inside any establishment that sells liquor. (That and a bank.) Anyway, bookstore, liquor store, hell, we didn’t know. Joby ended up getting arrested for possession of a firearm. We ponied up five hundred bucks for a lawyer, and the case was eventually dismissed. The judge said, You can carry a weapon, just don’t carry it in Albuquerque. Man, they love us in Albuquerque.

During the first few signings, the bookstore people told me they would be happy if I signed eighty to one hundred books. The women especially, who ran many of the bookshops, were pleased with the way things were going, especially when we would sell four or five times what they expected us to sign. Publishers Weekly ran a feature story about how well organized we were, how unusual the tour was, and how surprised bookstore owners were with the success of the book. After a while, I’d get into a groove where I could sign about 120 books an hour, including the time taken to snap a picture, shake a hand, or lecture the kids who came with their parents about not smoking. A lot of bike riders would bring their kids, so I used the opportunity to ask them, You know why I talk this way? referring to my raspy voice.

Looking up at the gauze patch covering the hole in my throat, they’d usually shake their heads.

The parents would smile as the kid and I shook hands on the deal. Hopefully I’ve cost the big tobacco companies a few young customers.

Normally, after about two or three hours of signing books, the ladies in these stores would ask me if I needed to take a break. Trying not to break my stride, I’d politely decline.

No ma’am, we have a long line of people here waiting. Let’s take care of them all.

That prompted one mild-mannered store manager to get into the outlaw spirit. The next time I get a mealy-mouthed writer complaining about signing for forty-five minutes, she said, I’m gonna tell ’em, ‘Fuck you!’

Atta girl!

I was signing away at a bookstore in Oklahoma City, when a long, tall cowpoke walked into the store to stand in line. He looked cold and mean, and I could feel this guy’s stare as he inched closer and closer to the front of the line. When he finally got to the front table, I noticed that he hadn’t even bought a book. I thought to myself, Oh boy, I knew we’re gonna get into a fight with this motherfucker. He stood on the other side of my signing table as I pushed my chair back a little bit. I was ready to jump up, nail him first, and not even give him time to make the first move.

You know, he said to me, I think I finally figured you out.

What have you figured out? I asked him, ready to kick over the table and stomp some ass.

You Hell’s Angels are exactly like us cowboys, he said. You wanna ride your motorcycles without government intrusion, and we just want to raise our cattle without the government breathing down our necks. Thanks a lot. I read your book twice.

He turned around and walked away.

Sometimes the lines were so long that some of my fans read the whole book while they were waiting to get it signed and say hello! In Modesto, where my sister Shirley insisted on setting up a book signing, the Legends Harley-Davidson Cafe was so packed that the local bookstore manager had to go down the long line and beg customers not to buy more than one book each so they wouldn’t run out too fast. We caught him flat-footed. They should have trusted Shirley. She knew the crowds would come.

The previous week, I signed more than eight hundred books in San Diego at the Harley dealership before they ran out. That’s what put us over, and we broke on to the New York Times bestseller list.

Most of the cities on our tour were closely spaced and it was easy to do one each day. Generally the ride between sites was only a couple hundred miles. Once in a while, my pack of riders would get a chance to ride full throttle on the open road. When we finished up in Oregon, we rode straight on to Englewood, Colorado, to the Columbine Harley-Davidson dealership. That was one of our longest runs. We rode so fast, we got there a day early. Incidentally, the last time I’d been in Englewood was in 1988, when the feds first put me in prison at their facility in Englewood during my last stretch in the joint.

After the Englewood signing, we had to hightail our bikes down to the Four Corners bike rally near Durango, Colorado. This was scheduled a little too tight for the distance. We rode eighty to ninety miles an hour the whole way. Since we got there a half-day late, there were long lines of people waiting to get their books signed. I hopped off my bike and started signing, pronto. I never like to disappoint anybody.

We had two Harley shop signings scheduled when we tooled into Los Angeles. First was Book Soup, which went well even though we were competing with a Lakers play-off game. Over at the Glendale Harley the next morning, I started signing earlier than advertised. When it was all over with, I had scribbled Sonny on almost 700 books.

That same afternoon we were scheduled to ride into Universal Studios CityWalk, to appear at a Harley boutique. But a problem erupted when the security police at the shopping mall where the boutique was located proclaimed they wouldn’t let club members wear their patches. Fuck that bullshit. Cops intruding, calling bookstores and radio stations, and sticking their noses into our signings was nothing new. We canceled the Universal signing. Their restrictions were unacceptable. The Glendale Harley dealership owner who had treated us so well also owned the Universal City store. It wasn’t his fault. So after an entire day of signing in Glendale, I stayed late and signed extra books so they could sell them to people who missed us in Universal City.

The next day, we visited a fashionable used-clothing shop that reportedly had a fake Hell’s Angel patch. Five of us rolled into the L.A. shop. As we walked in, the clerk’s face turned white. I asked him where he got the bogus patch. I took the jacket with the bogus patch off the hanger and brought it to the counter. Then I took out my knife and began cutting the patch off the leather jacket.

Nobody but a Hell’s Angel is allowed to wear something like this. Besides, this patch is a phony.

The clerk mentioned something about it being bought by the owner who was not there.

Hey, the guy said. I’m … giving it to you, okay? Since you guys are all here, why don’t you just take the jacket too? Pete from Dago slapped a buck on the counter in payment and we left peaceably with the bogus patch.

Our next stop was Venice, California. We had a good time signing at a writers’ group called Beyond Baroque. It was different than the other signings, a little more … artsy. My two cowriters, Keith and Kent Zimmerman, read from the book and then Dennis Hopper came out and introduced me as one of his favorite American heroes. A couple of bike clubs showed up, including a nice bunch of Viet Nam vets on Harleys. Their motorcycles parked on the grass, bikers mixed with vets, vets mixed with writers, and all of us surrounded by braless chicks. It felt almost like the sixties.

I knew the local and federal cops would keep sticking their noses into things even though I wasn’t always aware of them. In Oregon, the police went to a bookstore and told the manager, You know, the Hell’s Angels killed somebody at the last book signing. You gotta stop this. Of course, it was all a lie.

I did a radio interview at a station in Los Angeles and the cops called the radio host before his air shift and asked for a tape. A few months later, we were supposed to sign books at another Harley dealership. A local Hell’s Angel chapter sponsored the event and promoted it, so lots of people were roaring and ready to show up. A few days before the signing, the acting chief of police told the dealer that if he sponsored a Hell’s Angel event in their town, the police would not bring their Harleys in for service at the guy’s dealership anymore. He canceled the signing, but we staged it anyway at a little bar farther down the road.

The best cop story on the tour happened in Florida at the Daytona Biketoberfest, a huge motorcycle event.

The gang squads usually kept an eye on us. During a break from the signing, I walked around to look for a place to get something to eat. We ended up in a 7-Eleven. The parking lot was literally filled with a thousand people milling around the area. Tons of bikers. A lot of people recognized me from the signing, so I was hanging out, shooting the bull with them.

Up rode three bicycle cops, big kids really, in their twenties with short pants and cop uniforms wearing bicycle helmets. They were riding around checking out the crowd, maintaining peace. Ha!

They see me standing there and yell out, Hey, hey, hey!

You talking to me? I asked.

Yeah.

First off, my name isn’t ‘Hey.’ (I learned that line from Lurch in prison.)

Come on over here, the cop, a sergeant, on one of the bicycles orders me, I gotta talk to you.

Everybody hanging out moved in closer to see and hear what might happen. We were all in a big circle as people poked into our conversation, trying to figure out what was going on between a hungry Hell’s Angel and three roving bicycle cops. What do you think you’re doin’? the sergeant asked me.

I’m going to eat.

No, I mean, what are you doing wearing a patch? Hell’s Angels can’t wear patches in this town.

Fuck you, I muttered.

Well, I gotta see some ID. I have to check this out, said the tallest one, the sergeant.

I was disgusted, hungry, and desperately trying to keep my cool. Look, I’ve already been checked out by your people.

By who? he asked.

How the fuck do I know? Your gang squad, I assume. From town to town, the first cops to question me usually came from the local gang squad. When I get pulled over on the highway, I’m usually detained until someone from the squad gives the all-clear and lets me ride on.

The cop gets on his walkie-talkie phone, with everybody listening in, and calls his command center. This sergeant was acting really serious and professional as he barked into the phone receiver that was strapped to his shoulder. We could hear the voice on the other end of the line.

Listen, I’ve got this Hell’s Angel stopped here, he says, and he’s wearing a patch. He says the gang squad has already checked him out. His name is Ralph Sonny Barger. Could you check on this for me?

Long pause. Everybody then heard the squawk as the captain back at the command center yells over the young cop’s walkie-talkie:

DON’T FUCK WITH THAT GUY!

I knew I had a pass. See ya later, Sarge. I grabbed a burrito and headed back.

So that is my life now. Riding my bike, meeting old friends and new people, signing books, and oops, I almost forgot, writing a new book that should be out in 2002 sometime. I’m on that never-ending, winding road…. It may be the same road that runs through your town.

—Sonny Barger

1

MUSTER TO CUSTER

A motorcycle run is a get-together, a moving party. It’s a real show of power and solidarity when you’re a Hell’s Angel. It’s being free and getting away from all the bullshit. Angels don’t go on runs looking for trouble; we go to ride our bikes and to have a good time together. We are a club.

Most Hell’s Angels are great riders. A group of Hell’s Angels cruising down the road, riding next to each other and traveling at a speed of over eighty miles an hour, is a real sight. It’s something else, a whole other thing, when you’re in the pack riding. It’s fast and dangerous and by God, you better be paying attention. Whatever happens to the guy in front of you is going to happen to you. It’s different from other vehicles. You gotta be alert. Like Fuzzy, an Oakland Angel, once said, God damn, we do eighty-five or ninety in the rain sometimes. I don’t even go that fast in my car!

When Hell’s Angels chapters started getting chartered outside the state of California in the late sixties, that’s when we first started our cross-country rides like the USA and World Runs. We’d meet up with the new clubs along the way, and they’d join the run. Man, we used to ride from Oakland to New York on those early rigid-frame bikes, and they bounced around so much that if you drove sixty miles in an hour you were making great time. The vibration left you tingling and numb for about an hour after you got off your bike. If you covered three or four hundred miles in a day you were hauling ass. The other big problem then was that we’d have to find gas stations every forty miles or so, since those old-style bikes with small tanks couldn’t make it past sixty miles. Today, on a Harley FXRT, with their rubber-mounted motors and big gas tanks, you not only get a smoother ride, you can log five or six hundred miles a day on a few tanks of gas without breaking a sweat.

The big differences between the Hell’s Angels and the rest of the motorcycle world are our bikes and the way we ride. This is serious business to us. Our bikes are us. We know that. The cops know that, and everybody else should know that too. The law and the road are one. Even today, if the cops know a large group of Hell’s Angels is headed somewhere, they’ll show up in force, alerting neighboring police forces along the way. This mutual assistance pact they set up has been used against us for as long as I can remember. It’s no different today than it was thirty years ago. We keep going and they keep coming around with all their surveillance methods and radio equipment watching us and keeping tabs. We don’t look for trouble or have intentions of starting any, but by God, it always seems to be around.

The reactions of law enforcement can depend on where you are. We were on the road tearing through the Texas panhandle and on into Oklahoma. As we approached Oklahoma City, ten or twelve Oklahoma state troopers pulled onto the freeway and escorted us right through the city limits. They didn’t even want us stopping for gas.

In Texas a cop asked me, Excuse me, partner, but … why do you and your friends carry those big knives?

I told him, Because we’re all felons and we can’t carry a big gun like you.

Another time in Missouri, fifteen of us were sitting by the side of the road taking a break when a state trooper pulled up, got out of his car, walked up to us, and said, Mind if I ask a stupid question?

Not if you don’t mind a stupid answer.

What are fifteen Hell’s Angels from California doing sitting on the side of the road in Missouri?

We lost four or five of our people and now we can’t figure out where they’re at.

The trooper thought for a few seconds. I just might be able to help you. I could get on my radio and start checking around and help you find them. He radioed around to a bunch of stations and other troopers, and once he located them, he gave us directions on how to meet up with our lost brothers.

On the other side of the coin, there was a cop in Texas who spotted us on a highway outside of Amarillo, got scared,